APOTHEOSIS
by Revriley
Summary: New York, 1922. A glimpse into Chané Laforet's childhood and her relationship with her father. Includes: a picnic, a swing, and her first kill. Originally published on Tumblr as a secret santa gift.
**NOTE: This story was originally published 15 Jan 2016 on Tumblr as a Secret Santa gift for Tumblr user claire_stanfields, as part of the Baccano! Secret Santa Exchange. Apart from correcting a few minor typos and changing a few words, the content of this story is the same as the original publication.**

 **Addendum: In reality, Chane probably did not arrive in Manhattan with Huey until 1925 or some date much closer to it. I'm taking a creative liberty with 1922 as the chronological setting.**

 **1922**

It had been two months since Chane had given up her voice for Father's sake.

Her throat had finally stopped throbbing, and though Chane would have gladly endured the painful scratchiness for the rest of her life in the name of protecting her Father she couldn't help but feel relieved all the same.

She and Father had moved to Manhattan earlier in the year and though Chane had not asked why, her Father explained that they were there for the sake of his research, and wasn't Chane such a good little girl for accepting a big change as calmly as she did?

Chane did not go to school. Instead, she studied at home, and she spent many a day dutifully practicing her handwriting and spelling in solitude while her Father attended to business elsewhere.

Chane did not play with the neighboring children, though her Father had not forbidden her from doing so. She felt no need to - and besides, she reasoned, a little girl who plays with knives is perhaps unsuited for other company.

 **One month ago**

Father had died.

Chane knew he had died, because one night he came home and his clothes were streaked with bullet holes.

He had knelt in the hallway and stroked Chane's hair as she stood in front of him. She had wanted to hug him so desperately, but she had refrained and instead stood and trembled, her hands curled into to fists.

 _I wasn't there._

 _I wasn't there to protect him._

 _But even if I had been there, what could I have done?_

The thought tormented her all that night. She did not manage to sleep. (She hadn't tried).

The next day at six thirty in the morning she gathered her books and papers and went down to the kitchen. Father was already there, his back turned to the door—whatever he was doing at the counter, Chane couldn't tell.

She stood in the doorframe and watched him quietly. His sleeves were rolled back, which was rare for him, and the back of his dress shirt was smooth and crease-free.

(There were no holes).

Eventually she mustered up the courage to enter, putting her schoolwork down on the kitchen table. There was an omelette waiting for her in front of her chair, and a glass of water, which she was careful not to spill on to the wooden surface as she took her seat. Her throat ached terribly.

Her Father turned.

His sleeves were rolled back, which was a rare sight. He was drying his hands with a towel, and behind him she could see a silver vase, and beside it, one of their wooden cutting boards. Upon it lay some flowers, with their stems trimmed (presumably with the knife that lay beside them).

"Ah, Chane," he said, with a faint smile. "Come, look. Aren't they beautiful?"

He picked up the bundle of flowers, which were tied with a pale blue bow, and held them out to her. She turned in her seat to get a better view of them. They were a deep purple, with tall and slender stalks.

Chane nodded.

"Do you know what these flowers are called?"

She did. She didn't nod.

"Heather. Such a pretty word for such a pretty flower, wouldn't you say?"

He turned, put them in the vase, and then swept the trimmed stems into the palm of his hand. His left hand knocked against the knife lying on the cutting board. She watched as it gleamed under the electric lighting, wobbling ever so slightly to and fro. And then, unbidden, two thoughts sprang simultaneously to mind:

 _Beautiful._

and

 _I know how I can protect my Father._

She forgot how to breathe in that instant. She stared at the light shimmering off the polished blade of the knife but she did not register what she was seeing.

 _How?_

 _How could I think such a thing?_

 _How could I ever do—_

There was a hand on her head.

Chane blinked, and looked up to meet her Father's gaze. His coat hung over his left arm, and he still wore that faint smile on his face.

"I'm going now, Chane," he said, and he left the kitchen. A few moments later, Chane heard the front door open

 _I love you, goodbye; I'll wait for you. Be safe, Father, and don't die again tonight. I love you. I love—_

and close.

She sat motionless for several long minutes. Finally, she reached for her grammar book, and opened it, pushing her breakfast away at the same time. She had lost her appetite. Her mind had gone blank. She looked down at the text but made no attempt at comprehension. It was all Chane could do to focus on the churning of her stomach and the rapid thumping of her heart.

She stole a glance at the counter. The knife was still there on the cutting board, and she froze. Father normally never left knives where she could reach them. He was always careful in putting them away in the cupboards, always.

Had he simply forgotten this time?

Chane returned to the book, and copied a few passages onto her notepad.

She stole another glance at the counter.

Her throat suddenly felt very dry.

Swallowing painfully, she reached for her glass of water and sipped at it. The room was quiet, its silence filling up the room, sinking into the pores of her skin and pressing against her chest. Chane normally was fine on her own, but in that instant she had never felt more alone.

She set the glass down, and slowly, ever so slowly, she stood up. Everything was oppressively quiet, stiflingly still, and it felt like she was wading through a treacle-like quiescence as she made her way to the counter.

She picked up the knife. It didn't weigh very much, and the wooden handle felt smooth and warm to her touch.

 _I want to protect Him. Protect my Father._

 _I want to protect him from the pain of dying, and I want to protect myself from losing him forever._

She hefted the knife in her right hand, and she raised her arm and she swung down her hand and sliced through the air. The blade _gleamed._

She closed her eyes, and pictured her Father bleeding and left for dead in some grimy alleyway. The grotesque twisting of his limbs after a hit and run. HIs immortality discovered and his subsequent removal for human experimentation.

A chill sunk into her bones.

She swung, again, and again, conjuring up images of would-be assailants. She stabbed one in his jugular, another in his shoulder and gored the stomach of the third.

 _I must protect him. He is the only family I have in this whole world._

 _Without him I am nothing._

 _I will protect him from death and I will protect him from Death._

 **1922**

 **Now**

 **5:17 PM**

It was warm, but not humid, for an early May evening. _What weather_ , her Father had said, _shall we go for a walk?_ \- and that was how Chane found herself holding her Father's hand as the two of them strode down the sidewalk on a Friday to the nearby public park.

He had dressed her in a sleeveless creamy white dress, the same color as his suit, and before they had left Chane had slipped on a white cardigan, because that way she could hide her knife in one of its sleeves, where it would be easily reachable in a crisis.

That day, one month ago, she had made sure to put the knife back exactly how her Father had left it on the counter before he came home. The next day, when he went out again, she had pulled a short stool over and stood tiptoe upon it, rummaging through the cupboard where he kept his knives in search of one she could practice with.

To her surprise, she had pulled out a small pocketknife, one that didn't look like it belonged in a kitchen cupboard. It met her needs, she had thought, and she had secreted it away under her pillow, shivering with adrenaline. When her Father had come home that night she waited, breathless, for him to open the cupboard, wondering whether he would notice the missing knife.

Well, he had opened the cupboard right before dinner, but when he took his seat at the table he hadn't said a word to Chane about the missing knife.

Now, she could feel the cool blade of the knife pressed against her left lower arm as they entered the park's west entrance and onto a path lined with violets and orchids, weaving between people while her Father occasionally ducked under the outstretched branches of apple trees that had yet to be groomed back from the path. A sweet citrus tang permeated the air. Chane awkwardly pulled her left sleeve down with her thumb—she had sewn little loops into the cardigan a week or so ago, which were intended to keep the knife from falling out, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. She regretted choosing the white cardigan—if the knife accidentally nicked her skin again, like it had the first few times she experimented with hiding it in her sleeves—the red blood would surely bleed through the sweater for all to see.

Suddenly, her Father stopped, and without letting go of her hand he bent down to peer at the burgeoning flora. A moment, later, he straightened, and Chane saw that he had plucked one of the violets from the ground, breaking the stalk in twain as he did so.

"Chane," he said, and she immediately tilted up her head, waiting.

He let go of her hand, gently brushed her hair back and put the violet behind her ear, just as one would with a pen.

She waited for his next words.

"A violet suits you, Chane." He seemed pleased, she thought. That smile adorned his face, after all.

And then he _chuckled_ , which startled her. She peered up at him, but could not guess as to what had him so amused. He gave no indication that he would explain, but Chane didn't mind nor care. She never questioned her Father. Never.

"Come," he said, and took her by her right hand. They resumed their promenade, and though Chane didn't think anyone would threaten her Father out in the open, she was still uneasy and watched the surrounding crowds intently.

No one came across as particularly alarming, however. Most of the other passersby were couples or families out for an evening jaunt before dinner, and there were plenty of children laughing and darting about, playing what she thought was tag. None of the people sitting on the wooden benches looked like trouble either.

They approached one bench, upon which sat two middle-aged women and a boy who sat next to the one on the right, kicking his legs and looking rather sorry for himself. Both of the women were plump and dressed in the latest style, and they tittered between themselves when she and her Father passed by.

"Did you see…?"

"They're so _elegant_! What _class_."

"All in white, too…!"

"How lovely it is to see a brother's love for his younger sister. What a _gentleman_."

"It's so refreshing to see such a well-bred pair in this day and age…"

"Humphrey, look—look, will you? When you grow up that is the sort of man you must aim to become. See how straight his back is?"

Her Father came to a stop in front of a white swing, the seat a pretty ornamented facsimile of a bench. He stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner, and Chane saw the corner of his lip curl into a smile.

"Why don't you sit here, for a little while?" He told her, and she obediently climbed into the seat and curled her fingers automatically around the tight white ropes from which the bench hung.

He looked up and down with an appraising eye. Chane heard a sigh to her right and she turned her head to see that the two women and the boy had moved to the bench closest to the swing, craning their heads to get a better view. The knife felt a little heavier in her sleeve, but Chane decided that they were just civilians too nosy for their own good.

"How _picturesque_!"

"How _lovely_."

"It's just like a painting."

"Humphrey, that is the sort of girl you ought to marry when you grow up, do you understand? A girl with _grace_."

Chane had walked by enough street vendors and bookshops to know what they were talking about. She had seen the street side paintings of young woman decked out in gauzy dresses and sitting on swings, surrounded by honeysuckle flowers and doves.

…was that what her Father had in mind when he told her to sit?

"Chane."

She snapped to attention.

"I have business I must attend to. Will you be a good girl and wait for me here until I get back? Whatever you do, don't move. Do you understand?"

She nodded, but couldn't help but be perplexed—he didn't normally talk to her in such an overprotective manner.

"Oh! Oh my."

"A gentleman through and through, didn't I tell you, Humphrey? Didn't I tell you?"

Ah. Chane thought she understood. But she was immediately distracted by a sudden panic.

 _Wait. I must go with you. Wait! Who will protect you if I am not there?_

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. It would be alright, she told herself. It would be alright.

"Thank you, Chane. You are such a brave little girl, aren't you? I couldn't be happier." He smiled That smile, and in the evening glow his eyes gleamed. She watched as he continued down the path, towards the east. She watched until he turned a corner and was out of sight.

And then she waited.

And then she waited.

And she waited.

She waited.

The sky blushed claret and plum when the sun set. The two women and the boy packed up their belongings and left, stealing glances at Chane as they ambled by. There were still a fair number of people out and about: young couples kissing on benches; a few individuals walking their dogs; a cyclist here and there.

She waited.

She waited.

Night fell, and the sky turned slate save for the city horizon dusty with light pollution, pale pink and orange. The hum of cicadas droned in the undergrowth, and only a few people were in the park now, hurrying down the path with their collars up and their shoulders hunched against the night breeze.

She waited.

Her hands were numb.

"Little miss, you oughtn't be out this time of night." A low voice roused her and she looked up to see a police officer gazing down at her, his hands on his hips. He looked to be in his forties, she thought, and black hair peeked out from under his cap.

She blinked at him. Her limbs felt heavy, and her stomach gurgled.

He waited, clearly looking for a reply. He tried again.

"Are you here alone?"

How could she respond to that? After a moment, she shook her head.

The officer turned his head this way and that, narrowing his eyes when he failed to find what he was looking for. He looked down at her again.

"Where is your guardian? I don't see them."

She shrugged.

"Are you waiting for them?"

She nodded.

The officer pursed his lips, and after a moment, he said, "did they tell you when they'll be back?"

She shook her head.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and he knelt down so that his face was level with hers.

"I think you should come with me to the station. I can get somebody to wait here in case your guardian comes back, yeah?"

She shook her head forcefully. Her Father had told her to wait _here_ , and she would not leave until he returned.

"Kid, it's nearly midnight—I don't know what kind of bum would leave a young girl outside all by herself this late but this isn't—"

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Excuse me," Father said smoothly, "but that is my daughter you are talking to."

The officer twisted around. Chane saw the muscles in his neck twitch and strain as he stared at her Father standing behind him.

"…daughter?" He managed, finally.

Father let out a small cough. He smiled, and this time Chane could tell he was definitely amused, laughing at his own private joke.

"I look young for my age."

The police officer faltered, but recovered quickly and got to his feet.

"Now listen here," he began. "I don't know who you think you are, but you can't just abandon your kid in the dead of night in some park to do God knows what off on your own like that. What if she were kidnapped by some hooligan? It's not safe, you hear me?"

Her Father ignored him, and extended his right hand to Chane.

"Come now, Chane. It's time to leave."

Chane hopped off the swing, and nearly toppled over—her left leg had gone to sleep without her realizing it. The policeman caught her just before she fell, and she shook her leg a little, the tingling feeling dissipating slightly.

"Are you feeling alright?" The officer asked, and she nodded. His face was very still, and there was a hardness in his eyes—but he was looking at Father, not her. She flexed her left arm, feeling the knife move reassuringly with the movement.

Her Father hadn't retracted his hand, and she took it. It was warm and comforting, and she gazed up at his face, waiting for his instructions.

"We'll be going, now." Her Father said to the policeman, and he began walking away, with Chane following his lead.

"Hey."

Her Father stopped, and this time it was the policeman's hand on her Father's shoulder.

"How long did you leave her here alone?"

"Oh, no more than ten minutes or so." Her Father assured him, without bothering to turn around and face the man. Chane, however, couldn't help but look back at the officer. He didn't look like he particularly believed him, but Chane thought that perhaps the answer didn't matter either way to the policeman.

"…If you have to go somewhere, take her with you next time." The officer said after a heavy pause.

Chane felt her Father's hand flex. She held her breath in anticipation.

"Perhaps I will."

Chane's heart soared, and she bit her lip, unable to stop from squeezing her Father's hand in her elation. That would mean she could protect him. She could spend time with him. Both prospects were immensely thrilling.

Her Father tugged at her hand, and they resumed their departure. This time, the officer did not stop them.

It was dangerous, wandering around at this time of night, and Chane was once again scanning her surroundings for potential enemies. Still, she couldn't help but sneak a glance up at his face, hoping that he was seriously considering the officer's words. Unsurprisingly, her Father remained as impassive as ever. There wasn't a single wrinkle that might betray his emotions.

 _Are you listening, Father?_

It did not matter that she no longer had a voice to give these questions. She knew what the answer was, though she might never know _his_ answer.

 _I swear to defend you from harm. From this very moment, until the day I die. Even when I am old and brittle I will be there for you._

 _You are my world. My only world. I need no one else. Only you…Papa._

But Father did not take her with him the next day, or the day after that. In fact, over the course of the following week he had taken her to the park almost every day, and every time he had left her perched on the swing for varying amounts of time. Occasionally he promised to return within the hour and followed through on his promise; sometimes he promised to come back but did not.

The second time his promise rang true, he had returned to Chane with a large white picnic basket in hand and a red and white striped blanket draped over his arm.

Chane could not believe her eyes.

"Why don't you come and help me?" He asked, though it didn't sound very much like a question.

Stunned, it was all she could do to slide of the swing and hurry to his side, taking one end of the blanket and shaking it out as her Father did the same with the other end. They laid the blanket down on the grass (freshly cut, judging from the smell) and Father opened the wicker basket, pulling out a covered glass pitcher filled with iced lemonade and two empty glasses, placing them on the blanket.

It was another shock for Chane, who could not remember her Father ever expressing a fondness for lemonade. She couldn't recall ever having tried it herself.

She automatically reached into the basket and pulled out two plates, setting one down in front of her Father.

She continued emptying the basket, which contained chilled cheese sandwiches, thick crackers and Brie and caviar, green grapes and lemon tarts. Their meals at home normally never contained so much food, and Chane wondered how they were possibly going to eat it all.

Her Father picked up the pitcher and began filling his glass with lemonade. Chane took the opportunity to note potential hiding places - the biggest trees, the thickest hedges, all her blind spots that posed a threat to her Father's well-being.

She came to a pause at the nearby bench, upon which a boy was sitting the wrong way—facing her direction with his arms folded over the back of the bench and the lower half of his face buried in the crook of his right elbow. He seemed vaguely familiar somehow, but Chane could not remember where she had seen him before.

" _Humphrey!_ What have I told you about how a young man should sit? Certainly not like a delinquent!"

Ah. The Friday promenade.

Humphrey slouched further still, his brows furrowing, but after a few moments he twisted round and faced the proper way. His mother—at least, Chane presumed she was his mother—took her seat beside him, turning her head surreptitiously to look in the direction of the picnic.

Chane had since lost interest, and turned her attention to her Father.

He sat with one leg bent and the other extended, putting his weight on his hands. His head was tilted towards the sky, and his eyes were closed. Chane reached out and took one of the sandwiches, studying his face intently as she took a bite.

His glass of lemonade sat untouched in front of him.

Her own glass sat temptingly towards her right, and Chane picked it up with her free hand, mesmerized as the lemonade shimmered under the sunlight. She had never had lemonade before, and she wasn't totally rid of the curious streak that had plagued her when she was a very young girl, and Chane could feel the tiniest bit of anticipation welling up inside her as she swirled the lemonade in the glass one, twice, three times.

She took a sip.

 _It's good!_

The lemonade had been sweetened with sugar, which Chane appreciated greatly, and forgetting her purpose, she closed her eyes for just a second to savor the flavor.

"It is not the same."

She snapped to attention. Back rigid, eyes focused on her Father. Waiting for orders.

 _…oh_.

He wasn't talking to her—was he? No, he had been murmuring—so softly that anyone else might not have heard him. His eyes were still closed, his face tilted away from her.

Chase's heart was pounding. She hardly dared to move, still clutching her sandwich in her left hand. She took another sip of the lemonade without thinking.

After several minutes, she relaxed a little, and finished off her sandwich quickly and after brushing her hands free of crumbs she folded her hands in her lap and waited.

Another minute passed. Chane reached out and snagged one of the grapes.

"… _I wonder what you'd have thought of all this._ "

Chane knew for certain now that her Father was not talking to her. After all, he never asked to hear _her_ thoughts.

They sat, unmoving for a good hour or two. Ants soon took an interest in their little feast, and Chane found herself periodically brushing lines of them away from the foodstuffs. Her Father had not moved an inch over the course of the meal, so when he finally opened his eyes Chane held her breath and folded her hands once again, all ears.

"It is time to leave, Chane. Come now and help clean up."

Chane obliged eagerly, and repackaged the crackers, Brie, and caviar, putting them away in the basket along with the sandwiches and grapes. As she was putting the plates away, she noticed out of the corner of her eye her Father picking up his own glass of lemonade and emptying it in the daffodils behind him, shaking the last few droplets out with a few sharp jerks of his hand. She swiftly drained the last drops of lemonade from her own glass, and then collected her Father's glass, stacking them and laying them down in the basket. The pitcher fit in the remaining space, and she hefted the basket with both hands as Father folded the blanket, shaking off a few resilient ants in the process.

He gestured towards the picnic basket ( _"a gentleman, such a gentleman!")_ , and Chane, after a moment's hesitation, handed it over. He took it in his right hand, and tucked the blanket over his left arm.

The two of them took the regular, short route home. As they ambled along, her Father talked of a boy he was interested in recruiting (for what Chane was not exactly sure) - someone called Claire Stanfield, who had apparently been working for a circus - which Father was apparently in the process of tracking down.

"He is said to be a genius," Father told her, adjusting the blanket as he walked. "He might prove very useful to me one day, if I can win him to my side."

Chane nodded. Her Father did not ask her for her thoughts, which was just as well—she had no thoughts to express.

A few days later, Chane was once again perched on the white swing at the park, waiting for her Father to return home. It was perhaps nine or ten at night, and the breeze that had picked up had a chill to it. She shivered a little through her black cardigan but otherwise did not move, waiting blankly for Him to return.

There was a wail to her left and _that_ caught her attention - nothing of note had occurred since the time her Father had left her there, so she couldn't help it. A mother and her daughter had stopped on the path. The girl, a year or so younger than Chane, was red-faced and squalling, her fat cheeks puffed out and her eyes scrunched up. As she howled her nose crinkled and the corners of her mouth stretched back in defiance.

"Margot, please _,_ oh, _please_ don't fuss like that so, we are in public and it is _very late_ , so would you just listen to me and be quiet and come along like a good little girl…?"

The pleadings of the girl's mother fell on deaf ears. The girl, heedless of everything except her own troubles, continued bawling to everyone and no-one.

"Margot, it's not safe at this time of night, don't you understand? I've told you time and time again…"

The mother, after fruitless attempts at wheedling and begging, finally gave up and continued down the path without the girl, without once looking over her shoulder. After a few moments, the girl's shrieking died down, and after a second of confusion, the realization that her mother was gone appeared to hit the girl full force, and she tore after her mother in a panic.

The sound of the girl blubbering faded as she caught up with her mother and the two left the park. It wasn't very long before Chane's surroundings relapsed into near silence.

The image of the girl's cherry-red face stayed, however. It was odd, to say the least—Chane had no explanation for why the girl occupied her thoughts so, but there it was all the same. The high-pitched caterwauling rang in her ears, and when she closed her eyes she could only see the girl rooted to the ground, displaying her raw emotion unreservedly and unashamedly.

Chane shuddered. She felt so very unlike herself—a queer mixture of light and heavy and she buzzed with some dreadful energy that she could not, would not ever be able to explain —

She curled her fingers very tightly around the white rope, a tight feeling in her chest. She curled her lips and stretched them back, screwing her eyes shut and wrinkling her nose. She puffed her chest out, and inhaled, and inhaled, and the rope dug into the palms of her hands and her skin pulled as she snarled and she breathed in and threw her head back and opened her mouth and her throat _burned_ and

she

 _screamed_

and

her head hung forward as her chest heaved with effort. Her arms were suddenly heavy, and she let her hands fall limply into her lap as she stared at the red welts stark against her pale skin.

She listened. The drone of the cicadas had continued without pause. The few birds that had been chirping in the trees above her continued softly peeping, cozy in their nests without a care.

And why not?

She hadn't made a sound.

Chane sat like that for another hour, until the shaking had died down. Finally she raised her hands and clasped the ropes once more, and raised her head and stared into the distance. Her mind was blessedly blank.

"Hey! Hey you!"

Chane blinked, and looked to her right. A boy dressed in an oversized green jacket and pants was looking at her, his clothes ragged and patchwork from messy repair jobs. He had shaggy brown hair with bangs that hung low and almost threatened to obstruct his eyesight.

"Dontcha know you're supposed ta _swing_ on a swing?"

Chane tilted her head in what she hoped was a neutral manner.

"I've seen you before, y'know, and I've never seen you swing _once_! How come you don't? It's fun!"

Chane shrugged, and waited for him to get bored and leave once he realized she wouldn't reply.

He smiled at her sympathetically. "Are you scared or sumthin'?"

Chane shook her head. She was almost offended.

He scrunched up his nose as he thought. "Maybe you don't know how to swing? Hey, don't worry about it, it's real easy," he enthused, edging closer. "you just gotta kick at the ground. Hey, I'll push you, help you get started."

Chane tensed as the boy circled round and went behind her. He pushed at the back of the bench though, without touching her (which she was thankful for) and it was a fairly gentle push too, which surprised her.

The boy scrambled into her line of sight.

"Now kick!" He exclaimed, and on reflex Chane kicked at the ground, and _up_ she went, and she kicked again at his encouragement, and she went higher and higher, and higher —

"Lookit you go, you're really flying!" The boy hollered, dancing a little where he stood. He beamed up at her, and Chane closed her eyes, feeling the wind in her hair as she _kicked_ and she _soared_ and - and - it was —

She slowly came to a stop, suddenly feeling unusually self-conscious. The boy rushed up to her, bubbling over with excitement.

" _Hey_ , that was great, you looked really great up there, and I think you even _smiled_ , I've never seen you smile before, and your cheeks are red, and next time you should go even higher, an'—"

Chane was overwhelmed. She shook her head slightly in desperation, and the boy backed down a bit, his cheeks flush on her behalf.

"Sorry," he said, a tad sheepish. "I guess I was too excited for my own good, huh?"

She shrugged helplessly. He laughed, and Chane realized she wanted to swing again.

The sound of footsteps made her stiffen, and the boy did the same.

"The cops!" He hissed, and his eyes widened in alarm—which he immediately covered up a moment later with a wide, reassuring grin. "I'll see ya later. Gotta scram."

With that, the boy took off, ducking into the shadows with well-practiced ease.

A few seconds later, her Father stepped into the light of one of the street lamps.

"There you are," he said, outstretching his left hand. "Come, let's go home."

She slid off the swing, and swayed slightly as she approached him, dizzy from the night's events. When he took her hand she felt immeasurably more reassured.

"We're taking the long way home," her Father said, and Chane nodded once to show she had heard.

The long way home, or at least, the way her Father was taking her tonight, appeared to snake through a shadier part of the area—street lamps flickered or were out entirely, and the venues displayed such signs as _Vincent's Vixen_ " and _Girls, Girls, Girls!._ Chane sucked in a breath as they walked, taking in everything around her when suddenly a man lunged at them from the shadows of an alleyway, knife in hand and yelling something about money.

Chane darted in front of her Father, who stepped back as she reached for her knife in her sleeve. It was caught on something, and she ducked as the man thrust his knife at her head, managing to withdraw her weapon on the second try; in the same second, withdrawing her knife, she sliced upwards with it at the man's extended arm. Contact. He yelped and dropped his knife ( _inexperienced,_ she thought, but so was she) and she lunged for it, grabbed it, and returned to a crouching position all in one move.

Now she had a knife in each hand, and she jabbed at his other arm, noting that using a knife on a real person was harder than practicing at air, as her knife had to cut through clothing, through flesh and through sinew now. Still, she seemed to have also met her mark, and with her other knife as the man was reeling she slit his throat. As he fell, another man emerged from the shadows, also wielding a knife, though this one was longer and wider. She bobbed and weaved, but her inexperience caught up with her and she gasped as the man managed to cut her upper right arm.

It hurt, oh, it hurt, but her Father was still in danger and she would gladly let herself endure the pain a thousand times over if it meant he did not have to too. Chane knew that if she stopped to process the pain now the man would likely kill her and kill Father and so she wrenched her arm away and with her left she went for the man's stomach, and, still clutching the other knife in her right hand, she went for his eyes.

The left knife sank deep into his gut, but he managed to just avoid the knife to his face. The man sunk to his knees, but unlike his comrade he hadn't dropped his own knife, which he futilely slashed at her as she danced out of the way and behind his back. She buried the other knife into the man's neck, and listened to him gurgle as he collapsed next to his fellow mugger.

It was over.

She had _won_.

Blood dripped down her right arm as she turned to stare at her Father, who stood outside of the alleyway and under one of the working street lamps.

He called her name, and she went to face him, waiting for her judgment.

"Let me look at you," he said. "In the light."

She stepped closer, and his eyes swept up and down her figure appraisingly. And he chuckled.

"You're covered in blood," he explained, wiping what must have been a smudge of blood off her cheek.

"So this is what you've been hiding from me all this time," Father mused, his eyes half-lidded and his faint smile ever present on his face. "Why Chane, I had no idea whatsoever that _this_ is what you were up to, of all things."

There was a glint in his eyes.

He knelt down and hugged her gingerly, so that their bodies were not touching.

(Well, of course—the blood would surely stain his white clothes).

"Would you like to learn how to fight, Chane? To really fight?"

Chane froze in his arms, and nodded.

 _Yes. Yes. For you, for You I would do anything._

 _Just for You._

 _Don't kneel for me, Father, it is I who should kneel to You._

He straightened, and she stared up at Him, all dressed in white, His head framed by the golden light emanating from the street lamp.

"You are a wonderful daughter to me Chane. Truly wonderful."

She would have gazed at Him forever, but then she remembered her pocketknife was still embedded in one of the crooks in the alleyway, and she turned to retrieve it.

"That old thing? Leave it. I will find you a new one, a better one."

She hesitated. And then she did the unthinkable.

She went over to the corpse _despite her Father's orders_ , and, with her injured arm she pulled the pocketknife out from the flesh and wiped the blood off it with the corpse's shirt.

Behind her, her Father laughed.

"Sentiment! How very unlike you. _Fascinating._ "

She returned to Him, and very deliberately held the knife over her chest, before holding it up and over His.

He waited.

He waited.

 _I promise You, Father._

 _I promise here and now._

 _I will protect You._

 _I will protect You from death, and I will protect You from Death._

 _Now, and Forever._


End file.
